1,500 Words By Monday, Please
written by:
Naughty Miranda

Paul's sweating hand in mine, we hurtled down the hallway, trying each door in turn to find one that was open. Much as I expected, and probably for this very reason, the majority were locked. But finally one, the science lab, flew open and we tumbled, laughing, inside. I pushed him to the back, to the alcove where the lab equipment was stored between classes; swept a few books off the seat and sat him down. Then, while I arranged myself beneath the desk, watched as he unbuttoned his pants.

He was already hard and I reached for it, trying to contain the greedy urge just to let him mount me. No, this was going to be slow... and special. I wanted him to remember this forever. I wanted to know that on lonely dark nights, he'd lie in bed and remember this - and the thought of that only increased my own urgency.

My brother's best friend sometimes slept over at our house, crashed out on the couch and one night, I came in late, after they'd gone to bed... but that's another story, watching Billy Masters pleasure himself by lamplight his eyes closed as he listened to something on his headphones, and wondering what he'd do if I....

Yeah, that's another story.

Although it might explain why the thought still turns me on.

Two fingers and a thumb held Paul, straining in my hand, as I leaned in towards his fat, meaty helmet, open mouth kisses alternating with my tongue, swirling and sweeping, slowly and firmly, soaking his flesh as he softly moaned.

I broke away for a moment; "sssh, you'll get us caught." Then caught myself moaning as I resumed my soft tease, feeling his strength and desire against my mouth; longing to take him deeper but resisting the temptation - for my sake, not his. My whole body was melting around his flavor, and the urgency with which Paul pushed at my teeth, and that feeling alone set my heart racing madly.

"Have you ever done anything like this before?" I whispered, my tongue snaking around him between every word, and I could barely hear the mumbled "no" that he forced out between soft groans and gasps of tight breath.

"Has anyone ever done this for you?" I continued, and again... but a little reluctantly, "no." I paused. "Not even..." oh, what's her name, the cheerleader chick he has spent the last semester with?

"She won't."

I licked him from end to end. "Really?"

"Says she doesn't like it."

I couldn't help myself. "She doesn't know what she's missing." And I could have added more, as well, about what an uptight, self-important little miss she is, but I think he knew that, already. Anybody who spells the name Judy with an "i," and then adds a few more with little hearts over each, probably isn't destined to be one of life's most pulsating creatures.

Whereas I knew exactly what was missing. Seven inches of twenty-year-old man in my throat, so now I swooped, drawing him in, neither sucking nor even tasting him as my lips slipped up and down his shaft, greasing him with saliva.

Paul murmured my name... "Chrissie..." and I halted for a moment. "I wonder if I can make you cum," I teased, and the intake of breath with which he responded more than answered my question.

"I wonder if I can make you cum in my mouth?" and this time, he moaned even louder than before, as my head sank so slowly down and my teeth gently closed around that rock-hard shaft. For a moment there, I even thought that he might... maybe he had more self-control than I thought. But now I was devouring him, my nails in the firm flesh of his hips as I held him tight between my lips, devouring him with a mouth as tight as a virgin, but greedy, so greedy... wanting ever more.

His hand was on the back of my head, clutching my long hair, pulling and twisting, and I repositioned myself just a little to let him take even more in his fist. My mouth was a furnace but his flesh was even hotter, and I knew it would be soon... very soon...

... and that is what you get for thinking you can pull that kind of stunt in my class. An English Lit discussion on what constitutes good writing had transformed itself into a free-for-all, debating the merits of 50 Shades of Grey. Assuming it has any merits at all.

I knew where I stood, and it was as far from that trash as I could possibly get. But the class very quickly divided between those... females for the most part... who considered it somehow "empowering" for women; and those... the males... who described it as demeaning. Neither half of the debate, however, touched upon what I considered the key point - which was, and remains, does a hot story excuse lousy writing?

"Well, it's only porn," piped up one voice, and so ten minutes were spent discussing that point; and the fact that more heinous crimes are committed against the English language by writers who share that attitude than probably any other field of literature.

The argument that if you're going to write, you should write as well as you can (and if you can't... then at least look like you've made the effort), very slowly gained traction, only to be shot down by a girl in the back who pointed out, quite rightly, that clearly the general public doesn't care. Otherwise 50 Shades of Grey would not have sold as much as it has.

Quite rightly, but quite depressingly. Because if naked success is the sole standard by which we measure art, then we might as well all go back to finger painting and grunting.

I set their evening's study. To write, in 1,500 words and to the very highest standards they were capable of, either a discussion of erotica or, if they were able, an actual piece of erotica. No bad language, nothing illegal, but otherwise as explicit as they wanted.

No doubt there would be grumbling from higher up the faculty... "oooh, Chrissie had the English Majors composing pornography, fuss fuss fuss"... but it was a legitimate theme, and a fascinating project. As, I am delighted to say, I discovered when the papers were handed in the following week, and thirty-seven students had succeeded in composing some of their most thought-provoking writing yet.

And one, Paul, had tried his hand at erotica - and made himself the star.

So now you want to know about his co-star, correct?

I am just shy of thirty. His story's fictional partner was "older, but still hot. The kind of MILF you'd spill seed for wherever she begged you to put it."

I'm a brunette, his partner had "brown hair."

Gray eyes; "grayish" eyes. Five foot six; "a little over five and a half feet."

Chrissie; "Christine."

Literature professor; "English teacher."

You can see where this is going, can't you? I certainly could (well, it's not like he disguised it) and I wasn't surprised. Even arm-in-arm with his cheerleader, if he saw me around campus, he'd let the girl go. In class, his eyes rarely left me; in debate, he always sided with me.

He had, as so many past professors have discovered in the world of college hormones, "a crush on me," and I was not so unaware of how easily a young man's feelings can be hurt that I went out of my way to discourage it. Or to encourage, for that matter.

Now he was essentially... what was he writing? It was a love letter to his professor, masquerading as an essay. It was a thousand words of rather well thought out erotica, camouflaging a late night sexting session. And it committed one unforgivable, cardinal sin.

I have never choked on a penis. No matter how "luxuriously thick, and velveteen alluring" it might be.

He was cumming, and I was ready, angling my head back, opening my mouth, resting him on my lower lip as I continued running my tongue across it, and my hand tugged him harder ... and harder... and...

There! A white hot splash across my tongue, and as he bucked in my hand, more on my cheek, on my chin, on my nose. I leaned in, folding my mouth around him, feeling his cum still pumping inside me; then, as it subsided, and it pooled on my tongue, recommencing my licking, spreading his mess across his abdomen, simply for the pleasure of licking it up.

He was making so much noise now, and my eyes flashed towards the door, aware that any moment now, someone might burst in to investigate. But I wasn't going to be rushed; I was cumming too, my body exploding around the sheer joy of his climax, and when I looked up, I saw in his wide-open eyes the sheer astonishment that stuns any guy the first time that he sees a woman orgasm for him.

Something else, I think, that the cheerleader doesn't do. Again, she doesn't know what she's missing.

And that's the way I like it, but for now, a few words to Paul. A reminder that this probably won't happen again; a suggestion that he pay more attention to accuracy in his writing. The unspoken request, of course, that he doesn't tell his friends what we just did... and a recommendation that he dump the cheerleader, and find a different girl who loves meat enough to want to all he's got.

I know they're out there. I read his classmates' essays, after all, and I've read the testimonials on the ladies' room walls, as well. So let's say goodbye to another of the faculty's favorite rumors. No, they weren't all written by me.